Silvercat - 8/22/2007 1:43 AM ET
Your writing is amazing...always carefully crafted and in the moment! Thanks!
|The Bose SoundDock shot out of my hands and fell to the floor like an opposite charge. Cringing, I eyed it, trying not to look at the cracked speaker.
“YOU. DID. NOT.”
“Uh-huh.” I said with a sly grin on my face. My dad left the shattered SoundDock in the foyer and stomped into the living room. I tried not to look too intimidating, but I don’t think I did a very good job of it. His cheeks went red with fury.
His expression livid, he walked the 15 feet into the living room. I tried to look casual, staring at the plasma like CNN Headline News was so interesting. He walked over to the widescreen and punched the off button with his fist and stood in front of it; all six feet and seven inches of him.
“Um, hello? I’m watching TV.”
“Um, hello?,” he whines mockingly, “can you take that from the top again so I can figure out if I’m in some kind of bizarre nightmare?”
“Sure,” I said nonchalantly (or I tried). “At my interview at Berkeley last week, I told the counselor not to accept me since you were just forcing me to apply anyway.” I stretch my fake grin even wider. “And looks like they listened.” I nudge the rejection letter his way across the glass coffee table. He doesn’t move closer to see it. Unlike me, he has 20/20 vision. I watch him glance at the top--”We regret to inform you that your application to the University of California at Berkeley has been rejected.”
He takes one step towards me. His hands are clenched so tight they’re almost blue. His face looks like it was dipped in red hot chili sauce and laminated. His size 16 Gucci’s stomp towards me like they’re going to crush me underneath them.
“I could almost kill you, you know that, David?”
I roll my eyes and get up from the couch just to be safe, walking towards the garage.
He follows me. He has the rejection letter clenched in his hands. I know he probably wishes the paper were me. Clench-able to suffocation or something. I throw a condescending smile in his face.
“I’m going to the University of Toronto.”
He doesn’t look at me. He’s in the kitchen. I hear the stove turn on.
“Good luck paying for it, David.”
I snort. Does he not remember the six figure trust fund my grandmother left me? Oh, and my recent eighteenth birthday? I fish out my car keys and give the stuff in the back a quick look-over. I get in my black Jetta and start the engine. I release the emergency and take one look through the door at my dad. He has the rejection envelope on fire. I shift into drive and head on my alternate path towards the American Dream.
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